


This Weather

by quixoticlie



Series: The Johnlock Mixtape Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Amnesia, Anal, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Drunk John, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Hypothermia, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Memory Loss, Mild Smut, Pining, Pirate Sherlock, Piratelock, Pirates, Poor John, Rimming, SailorLock, Sherlock Experiments on John, Temporary Amnesia, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3309125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticlie/pseuds/quixoticlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson thought he led a pretty nice life, until one day, he's kidnapped and taken aboard a pirate ship. Here, everyone seems to know who he is, but he can't recall ever meeting these people in his entire humdrum, plain vanilla existence. John is sure that they're all hiding something from him, and he's quite right, but they won't tell him, and he has to force the truth out on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hold Back the Wind, Hold Back the Rain...

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Over Fathoms Deep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744148) by [bittergreens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens). 



> This chapter is based on the song [This Weather by Patrick Wolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRNJR2nODcI). I knew that I wanted to do something with a sea side town, but was waffling for the reason or the exact idea for the story. Then, I read the utterly AMAZING [Over Fathoms Deep](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1744148) by [bittergreens](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens) and the inspiration was overwhelming. This is essentially my mental love letter to her beautifully written narrative. 
> 
> As always, THANK YOU THANK YOU to [cassyphace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cassyphace/pseuds/cassyphace) for being my cheerleader and support and question bouncer and beta and putting up with me all the time. You're lovely, doll.

Nothing ever happened to John Watson. Nothing ever really had. He was still in the same harbour town that he had always existed in, with the same townsfolk and fishermen and traveling traders who haunted the sad little place. The same things happened day in and day out, and nothing ever seemed to change. John had, a time or two, thought of maybe leaving and heading inland to see if his medical training could be put to better use there than here, where normal everyday illnesses and a few dockside accidents prevailed, but it was never more than a stray thought. Something always felt empty, in John... Felt missing. There was a constant yearning, a gnawing sadness that he couldn't place, and more than once a day, he found himself staring off beyond the docks and out to the open sea as if all of the answers to questions he couldn't begin to ask lay in the cold water. When push came to shove, the thought of ever leaving this place and it's easy access to the sea was detestable, and left him with a vague sense of panic and unease. No. It was best that John stayed here, for now.

The day that John's life changed seemed no different than any other, at the outset. It was a stormy sort of day in August, and the rain came down in sheets, unsympathetic to the way that it soaked through John's threadbare coat and ran in icy rivulets down his neck to dampen his shirt at the back. He had just had his lunch at the tavern, and was hurrying back to the little shop he shared with the town's butcher. There had been a spare room used for storage that they made up for John to see the sick in, and the arrangement worked well for him.

Coming up the back of the shop, through an alley, John paused when he heard his name.

"Oi! I mean Sir! John Watson? Is your name being John Watson, Sir?"

The voice came from a young man... a kid, really. He was slight and dirty, his breeches patched in places with even dirtier fabric. He clutched what looked more like a discarded blanket around his shoulders than a jacket or cloak, and he was accompanied by a larger man who seemed to be about John's age. The older man was cradling his right arm, face pinched in pain. Sighing, John waved them over closer to him, where the slight faded awning that covered the door he had been prepared to go through provided a bit of protection for the three of them from the rain that was still falling mercilessly.

"Been working down at the docks, I take it?" John asked as he beckoned the two over. The boy looked a bit sheepish as they hesitated, the older guy seeming to hang back.

"We ain't got any monies, sir. We ain't got any, but they sends us to you, they does. They says 'find John Watson.' so's I did that, sir. You is John Watson, isn't you?"

John sighed, but nodded, smiling slightly at the boy, and then his companion. "It's fine. No money is fine, I'll help you. Yes, I am John Watson. Why don't you come with me into my rooms, here, and I'll get everything set up to see what's going on, alright?"

The two looked at each other and nodded, then looked at John, who smiled comfortingly at them. As John turned to unlock the door, however, he heard footsteps too quickly to react. There was a dirty rag held to his nose and mouth, and John distantly thought about the headache that he'd be having later, before he blacked out.

\---

When John regained consciousness, he stayed very still, eyes closed. Taking stock of everything he could, he went over what he could tell of his situation before confronting his captors. His wrists were tied behind his back, and his feet tied together at the ankle. The bonds were secure, but not painful, not meant to be cruel and cutting. With no gag, and no blindfold, he was lying on his side in what was likely a small row boat with the kid holding the blanket that had been around his shoulders over both his and John's head to try and keep the rain off as much as possible. It seemed as if the storm had strengthened, and John couldn't ever remember a storm being quite this bad before. The small boat already had an inch or so of water in it from the rain, and John was soaked through and freezing. It was that, more than anything else, that made him finally try to sit up, groaning at his head.

"Wiggins, keep an eye on 'im. Won't do for 'im to go and be makin' a fuss and tip us."

The command, shouted over the sound of the wind, came from the larger man, and the kid nodded with an air of self importance, leveling John with a stare as if he could glare John into keeping still. As cold and wet as he was, he knew that landing in the water (for they had started rowing out by then) would be exponentially worse.

"Where are you taking me? Why are you taking me?" John managed to croak out, wincing against his headache, and the rain that seemed to blow sideways into his face.

Wiggins just pointed to a medium sized sloop that was anchored precariously in an out of the way place, not along with the rest of the ships. The sails were down, and, curiously, the flag, as well. John could count holes for ten cannons, though they seemed to be lashed tightly away because of the horrible storm. Even though John didn't have any reason, or a lick of proof, his mind pushed the word _Pirates_ front and center. Freezing, John looked at the daunting vessel, waiting for fear to race through him, and for anxiety to steal away his breath, for surely being captured by pirates who had asked for him by name wasn't at all a good sign. He waited... but all he felt was a vague sense of relief, and a great amount of excitement.

John frowned at himself, and shook his head. Preposterous. His brain must have been addled by being knocked unconscious, earlier. It was the only explanation for his obvious sudden madness.

He squinted at the ship, closer now than it was before, and noticed that it surely seemed as if the storm was getting worse the closer they got to it. It was almost as if the storm were squatting over the poor sloop, punishing it for some secret misdeed. That, too, was preposterous, as storms didn't care to punish one certain thing, and only did as they pleased. The ship must have just been unlucky enough to moor itself right where the worst bit of the storm was.

Unlucky for John and his captors, too, as their tiny row boat was no match for the rain and the waves. By now, Wiggins had forgotten John completely in favor of bailing out water with a small bucket, and the whole operation was listing from side to side nauseatingly. John could do naught to help, as he was still trussed up like a Christmas turkey, but he also didn't offer to help, as they were drawing closer, now, and it didn't seem likely that they'd sink before they arrived at their destination.

The ship loomed ever closer, though not by the virtue of the man who was rowing the tiny boat. Against the angry sea's churning, his oars did as much good as if he had been using feathers for the job. Regardless, they were soon close enough for the man to throw his useless oars into the bottom of the boat and grab onto a rope that was trailing for the side. Wiggins flashed a knife and john held very still as if any movement would either send their tiny boat crashing to splinters against the hull of the ship they were next to, or cause Wiggins to slip with the knife and cut something other than rope. While this was happening, a large bell was pulled from under the only bench seat, and swung wildly. The deep clanging seemed to cause a commotion above their heads, as shouting broke out, and a sturdy rope ladder was lowered down.

Standing was precarious in the boat, but John was made to do it anyway, and he grabbed onto the rope ladder. It all seemed very dangerous and he was again reminded that he should likely be scared, but, in truth, he had to disguise his grin as a grimace as Wiggins lashed his waist to the ladder with the rope that had been binding his wrists.

"You hold onto that, John Watson." His large captor shouted over the increasing wind. "You hold onto that, or God rest all of our souls. Good luck."

He rang the loud bell again and, with a lurch, the ladder started to be pulled up.

John instantly knew that he'd have a good few bruises from this particular leg of his sudden journey. The wind whipped around him, bashing him against the wooden hull time and time again as he was raised slowly. His fingers were icy and numb, and every one of his muscles seemed to want to seize up at that exact moment. John knew that he had to hold on, though, and he grit his teeth as he gripped the rope.

After what seemed like years, there were strong hands gripping his jacket, shoulders, then his arms and chest, then one strong arm around his waist and John gracelessly flopped to the deck like a fish. His fingers couldn't seem to let go of the rope, and he was shaking so hard that he distantly mused that he must actually more closely resemble a dying fish than a human.

As he was stripped of his jacket and wrapped in a rough blanket, he felt sleep taking him under, and he was much too out of his mind with cold and exhaustion to realise that the storm had abruptly stopped as soon as he had touched the deck.

\---

  
"Get him to his quarters. Help me lift him, for God's sake, Donovan."

"He's too cold. Look at him, he's too cold. What's gonna happen if-" 

"That won't happen, so I'll thank you to shut up about it." 

"He really is very pale, Lestrade. Keep him still and don't jostle him as much as possible, and continue to check his pulse. It's frightfully slow, right now, so if it drops too much more, or he stops breathing, come get me immediately. You and Mike are going to have to strip him when he's below decks. Strip him and put him into his bed... no the bed from before not... not the one he moved to." 

"Won't do, will it, Molly? Until we know for sure..."

"Exactly, so put him in his old room. The bed's made up, already. Cover him as much as possible, even his head, but not his face, and I'll get tea going, and bring it down with some warming pans for the foot of the bed." 

"So he's just out because of the cold and wet? Nothing else is wrong with him? Not... you know..."

"I don't know, Sally, I can't very well ask him. Sorry. That was mean. Sorry, sorry. It's just stressful."

"If you'll start heating water for a bath... Yes, I know it's difficult and scarce, and this means we'll not have one for a while, but God damn it, Anderson, if something happens to the Captain, and Sherlock finds out that it's because you wanted to wash in warm water, may God have mercy on your soul. Now move."

"Who's going to tell Sherlock? Of course, he likely already knows, you know how he is. How he's been. But... someone's got to tell him that he's on board and... you know, mostly alive."

"I will... I'll do it. Let me get him settled and out of the wet clothes and into bed, and I'll go to the Captain's quarters."

\---

When John came to, he was in his bed, safe and dry. He was still shivering, but at that point, the shivering was a blessing, because it meant that his body was trying to regulate it's temperature. Everything was sore, his head was pounding, and he felt more exhausted than he could ever remember being. He felt happy, too, and more at home than he figured he ever had before, and he shifted with a contented sigh, before he froze. A small gasp had revealed that he was not alone, and John kept his eyes closed, even though he knew that the room's other inhabitant was most likely already aware that he was awake. Slowly opening his eyes, John was presented with a pair of wide eyes that had both the depth and the color of the very sea that they were sailing on. John had opened his mouth to protest someone watching him sleep, or ask if he was a doctor, or demand to know why he had been abducted, or any number of other relevant thing in that moment. All John could do, however, was let out a small sound as the words died in his throat. His mouth was left softly open as his eyes searched the face that he was so sure he'd never seen before, and was also so very very sure that he knew better than his own.

"Do I... I feel like I..." John frowned and let out a huff of amused frustration, his face contorting between the two emotions. "I don't know... Just... just, what's your name?"

John saw a few things happen very quickly... almost too quickly for him to catch. It was as if he were trained in reading this man's face, though, because John could translate every nuance and flash of those eyes as if it were his native language. When John's eyes had been roving over that nearly familiar face, the man had been almost smiling, a surprised sort of elation crawling over the porcelain features. It looked like smiling was something that he hadn't practiced for a while, but his entire face transformed with just the barest hint of it. There was fear, there, as well, and hesitation, but the way those eyes lit up made John want to keep them that way.

As John looked lost and started his hesitant speaking, however, every feature on the other man's face slowly morphed, falling and melting and going to desperation to resigned determination to utter fear to hollow sadness to a blank facade... an impenetrable wall. John's own face registered shock for a moment, as he watched the emotions fall over the man's face as if he were watching a building crumble. He felt the need to apologise, but he didn't know why, and he wasn't sure what he had done to cause the sudden shift, but he knew that he would undoubtedly do anything to make those amazing eyes light up again.

"Right. Of course. I'm Sherlock Holmes." The man... Sherlock... said, voice coming out a bit strained. "You've got questions."

John could only frown as he watched Sherlock, wondering, still, what he'd done. Maybe all of these people thought he was someone that he just wasn't. Maybe John was just a disappointment. "Why am I here?" John asked softly, looking at his lap, now, unable to face the impassive mask that the other man had pulled on after the doctor had woken up and instilled such disappointment in him.

Sherlock sighed, and sat back in the chair he'd been occupying since well before John woke up. Instead of answering John's question, he let out a volley of his own. "Have you ever felt as if you belonged where you were, John? Have you ever felt as if your life there held meaning for you? That you were wanted and needed there? Did any bit of that town ever feel like home? Did you have purpose, happiness? Or were you simply existing? Did you crave excitement and not know why? Did you feel as if you were simply waiting for your real life to happen while you spent time going about your business? Were you... were you loved? Did you feel whole?"

John knew that he didn't imagine the way that Sherlock's voice wavered on certain parts of his quiet interrogation, an interrogation where he left no room for John to even begin to answer any of the questions. John kept his eyes to his lap, trying to place the quilt that was covering him (that he seemed to know very, very well), until his eyes snapped up on the word loved, just as Sherlock's voice did something odd. John stared at the man who was no longer looking at him, and took a slow breath. He released it just as slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. No matter how he tried to explain himself, how he tried to defend the perfectly alright and mostly pleasant life that he'd built for himself... No matter what he thought he could say as to the state of his well being and his emotions and the reasons for him staying in such a small town, every excuse died on his lips. After a few false starts, John sagged, feeling exhausted. "No... I just.. I... you're right. No. The answer to every question is no."

For some reason, the dark haired man looked satisfied at John's answer, though why he would take pleasure in the face of John's unhappy life was beyond the realm of John's thoughts. He apparently wasn't done making him think, though, because the next set of questions left John gaping up at him with a horrified look on his face.

"John. Can you tell me about your family? Your childhood? Tell me what your favorite thing was that your mother cooked for you. Tell me if you had siblings, if you'd always lived where you were when we found you. Tell me about your schooling, if you went to school. Where did you learn your trade? How do you know how to fix people when they're ill or broken? Tell me what your father did for work. Can you tell me anything about your life before three years ago?"

Realisation dawned as slow and oppressive as tar, and for a moment, John couldn't breathe. Every time he tried to think back past his current situation, it was as if a fog was blocking him from remembering anything. How had he gone so long without knowing anything about his past? Why hadn't he cared that everything before now was blank? He shook his head, though whether it was to clear the confusion, or to deny that he had no past was uncertain. He had no knowledge of his parents, or if he even had parents. He couldn't remember his childhood, or adolescence. John... couldn't remember anything.

He looked up desperately to the man who was forcing these things on him, and Sherlock had the decency to look slightly pained at the way John's face begged for answers before he had even opened his mouth.

"No... God, no. I don't... I can't. Why are you... What is... Who the fuck am I? What's happened to me?"

Sherlock leaned forward, hesitantly, as if afraid that he'd be thrown off if he so much as got close to John. Putting his hands on the blond's shoulders, he gently pressed him back so that he was lying down again, as John had shot up in bed from his panic. John was really feeling very tired, and Sherlock seemed to recognise this. "You are Captain John Watson, medical man, and a very accomplished sailor. There are many, many things that you should know, but I'm afraid at this point it will hinder your recovery, rather than help it. You just need to trust me when I say that all of us here on this ship are only looking out for your renewed mental and physical health, your happiness, and you as a whole. We are, all of us, very glad to have you aboard, John."

Sherlock smiled again, though it was tinged with a bit of sadness, as he murmured softly, "Sleep, John. Sleep, and we can start to work on this when you are well again..." while stroking the hair off of John's brow. Though John usually wasn't one for people touching him, or being able to rest well when he wasn't alone (and armed), he found himself lulled to sleep unusually quickly, Sherlock's voice and warm hands sending him under effortlessly.

\---

  
The next few weeks were the hardest that John thought that he'd ever faced. At first, he worked primarily with a wonderfully nice girl called Molly, who helped him first through the hypothermia, then through the near crippling sea sickness that she assured him was completely normal. She kept slipping up, though. John caught her saying "Just have to get your sea legs back again, don't we, Capt-... Oh... oh no... oh, here, drink this... that's good, hm?" Each time she would speak about something that she was obviously instructed not to, or didn't mean to, she would turn red, and her hands would flutter around, picking up and putting down insignificant items. It would usually end in her making John drink tea, which he didn't mind in the slightest.

Another frequent visitor was a man named Lestrade. He was kind, a bit older than John, but John also thought that he'd gone grey a bit prematurely, making him seem older than he was. He had kind eyes, and a warm laugh, and it made John feel quite as if he didn't care that he couldn't remember his family. Everyone on board seemed awfully nice, and to genuinely like him. He hadn't felt this cared for or appreciated in what he could remember of his life, and even though he knew that, rationally, he should be trying to escape or hating these people who captured him, he couldn't. There was something that he couldn't place, here. Something that felt right.

At night, most days, Sherlock came to John's room. Sometimes John only knew it because he felt a hand stroking at his face, or he'd hear the haunting sound of a violin being played. John hadn't been sure, at first, why he connected the music from his dreams to the man with the dark curls and beautiful eyes, but one night he swore he awoke to see Sherlock there, standing with a violin, stringing a bow. "Sleep, John." he murmured, and when the music started, John did just that.

\---

Many times, John tried to ask Molly or Lestrade about Sherlock, but he was rebuffed at every turn.

"But why won't he even come talk to me? Did I offend him so badly? Is he afraid I'll be angry? I'm not angry, Molly. I'm really not, I just want... I need to speak to him. He knows things about me that even I don't. Hell, so do you. So does everyone on this damned boat, but no one's telling me a thing. I'm not some fragile ornament, you know. I can handle whatever you lot are hiding. He doesn't have to stand like some wraith in the darkness of my room, only coming to see me when I'm either asleep, or too tired to be much of a conversationalist. What's he scared of?"

Molly just held her breath at John's second tirade on the subject that day. To be fair, there wasn't much to talk about, and they'd exhausted their normal avenues of conversation. She let her breath out slowly, as if restraining herself from shaking John by the shoulders and shouting the proper answer at him. Instead, she said what she always seemed to.

"Sherlock knows what he's doing, if he doesn't think that it's good for you to talk to him just now, then he's likely right. Plus, he's running the ship and that takes a lot of time out of the day. He's not... really... avoiding you, John. I can promise you that he wants to be here probably more than you want him here. That was probably too much. Oh, damn. Okay. Would you like some tea?"

\---

"Lestrade, I think we're mates, right?"

The man looked up from the compass that he was polishing and stopped whistling, frowning at John's question with his lips still pursed, which made John chuckle, despite his frustration. He looked at John curiously, then, obviously thinking that John's memories started to come back.

"We are, John. Pretty good mates, if I say so myself. And I do, mind you. What... er.. what brought this on, then?"

John's mouth was set into a grim line that made Lestrade's tentative smile fade rather quickly.

"Good, because as your mate, I'd like to tell you that if you don't get that poncy git who captains this ship to come and talk to me like a man, I will defy Molly's orders and march above decks when it's not an approved time. I will search this place high and low until I find the mad bastard myself. Then, I will refuse to leave his side until he talks to me like he damned well knows he should."

Lestrade was obviously not prepared for this outburst, and if John weren't trying to look intimidating, he would chuckle again at the shock written across Lestrade's face. He nodded once, then paused, and nodded again. Putting his cleaning cloth into his pocket, and the half shined compass in the other, he stood up and shifted his weight from foot to foot for a bit, looking down at John.

"You're not just saying that, are you?" Lestrade asked, nodding to himself yet again when he saw John shake his head definitively. "Right. Okay, then. I'll just... It's." he chuckled wryly. "It's good to have you ba-... to have you here, John. It really is. I'll... I'll go and tell him what you said, then, and hopefully he'll listen to me. Just... sit tight."

\---

Even though John had been half frozen to death the last time that he had seen the man before him, he somehow remembered that his eyes weren't usually that sunken in and ringed with dark smudge like bruises from lack of sleep. Nor were his cheekbones usually so prominent, and his clothes weren't usually hanging so loosely. Maybe the man he remembered was one from a fever dream, but the one sulking in a corner of John's dim room seemed entirely too frail.

"Sherlock. When was the last time you ate? Slept?" The words were out of John's mouth before he realised he was saying them, and he sat up to throw his legs over the side of the bed. He was done with facing this man whilst lying in a sick bed, and he would like to have a conversation with him in some semblance of a normal situation.

Sherlock's face looked surprised for a split second, before John saw a flash of pain. As quickly as the emotions had crossed the taller man's face, though, they disappeared behind the calm mask that John had come to associate as the "dealing with John" face. John despised it. He wanted to know what Sherlock was feeling, thinking. He wanted to know what was really going on in that brain of his.

"Sit down." John said gently, not waiting for Sherlock to follow the directive before he started on the speech that he'd been going over in his head since Lestrade had left an hour before.

"I know, by now, that I have history here. I know that something has happened to me, and my memories have left me... certain memories, at least. It must be hard for you..." At this, Sherlock tried to scoff, having just sat in the rickety chair near John's bed that he'd sat in the first night to question him. John just sighed and continued. "It must be hard for everyone, because I know that it's hard for me. Some things seem so very familiar, but there's nothing that tells me why. It's frustrating, and all I want is for you to tell me everything." He held up his hands as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. "I know that you feel like you can't, or you shouldn't, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to know. You seem to be concerned about me getting better, and remembering, but Sherlock..." John sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. "Keeping me locked up in my cabin isn't going to make my memories come back. Having me still and resting and bored to tears isn't going to make me get better. I need to work, I need to be useful. Being in here is killing me."

Sherlock looked confused at this explanation, and didn't seem to grasp that his carefully laid out plans for John's memories to come back weren't making any headway. "But..." Sherlock started, leaning forward as he studied John. "But I've been conducting experiments designed specifically to trigger optimum memory recovery by using sensory modality and carefully stimulating your senses. Your brain should easily make connections when confronted with the tests that I have designed."

It was John's turn to look confused, licking his lower lip as he thought. "Okay, I'm... not going to pretend that I caught all of what you just said, but I did catch 'experiment'. Is this why you've been playing your violin for me when I can't sleep?"

Sherlock smiled proudly, as if glad that John put two and two together. "Auditory trigger."

"And the time I woke up to find a sprig of rosemary hanging from a string attached to the ceiling, right above my face?"

"Olfactory trigger."

John laughed, staring at Sherlock happily. "And all of the tea that Molly keeps pushing me?"

Sherlock seemed to relax a bit, sitting back and watching John with one leg crossed over the other. "Gustatory perception trigger."

Grinning, John shook his head. "Amazing. You're amazing. You're a walking marvel, aren't you?"

The same surprised and pained look crossed Sherlock's face for a moment, and he tensed up again. John wondered what he'd done wrong, and felt himself closing off again as well. The two stared at each other for what was likely a much longer time than was generally comfortable for most people, but neither of them moved to stop doing so. After a while, John sighed softly. "I really would appreciate it, though, if you could give me some jobs on the ship to see if muscle memory kicks in and I remember what it is that I used to do, here. Maybe with more outside... stimuli?" he said, raising an eyebrow to indicate that he wasn't sure if he was using the word correctly. "Instead of just in here, things will happen more naturally. Maybe just give me the job that I used to have, here, and we can work from there. Or something simple if you don't think that I can handle it."

Sherlock stood up, cold exterior firmly in place. "I cannot possibly give you back your previous job, John, at this time." he said quickly, not sparing John a glance as he smoothed his coat out. "You see, you asked for the man who captained this ship to come and speak with you. I am not he. I am merely the acting Captain until such time as our Captain is able to take command of the vessel again. I will talk with Lestrade, and he will set up some work for you to begin on starting this evening, if you so wish it."

Sherlock turned from the doorway, to a still rather confused looking John, still sitting up on his bed in his long white night shirt that he'd been given the first night he was aboard.

"We will see you topside after Lestrade comes to fetch you, later. I'll have him bring you more suitable clothes. Good day, Captain Watson."


	2. ... I want to live to see good weather.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attends a party, loses his way, and most definitely finds what he needs to.

It had been two months since John first found himself suddenly uprooted from what he had always thought of as a pleasant life, and deposited quite unwillingly on board a ship. A ship whose (acting) Captain was awfully fond of a sort of vigilante pirating justice. Each time they would make port, most of the crew would disperse. Sherlock, however, would go to certain vagrants, law enforcers, and brothels to inquire about crimes and unsolved murders.

Instead of constantly pirating (though through a connection with a certain high ranking British government member they had not only a Letter of Marque, but a Letter of Marque and Reprisal), Sherlock would solve cases up and down the coasts that they visited for monetary compensation. Anything from a lowly midwife or baker up to royalty would do, really, if the case were interesting enough. The money seemed not to bother Sherlock overly much, and it was the other crew members that ended up accepting the rewards. Now it seemed to fall to John to accept, as he seemed to also be the one person who was grudgingly allowed to run after the wild man on his crime solving ventures, to keep Sherlock out of the worst bits of trouble that he could.

His memories still hadn't come back, but he'd learned to cope, and to get along well enough without them. Sometimes John would come across something that would seem incredibly, achingly familiar, but with that feeling would always come a near blinding headache. He would see stars and couldn't keep his feet underneath him, and so he was slowly being conditioned to stop trying to find things that seemed familiar.  
Not that he would ever tell anyone that.

They all seemed to be so eager for him to regain his memories, and as much as they accepted and treated Now John as a friend and colleague, he sometimes felt as if they were just making do until their Real John came back. On bad nights, John wasn't even sure if he was real, himself. He wasn't sure which was the truth: what they thought he was, or what his foggy brain told him had happened to him.

No, John's memories hadn't come back. Even so, he was having no trouble at all making new ones, and his company was rather good at keeping people's spirits high, as long as the work was done where it needed to be.

That's how John found himself sitting on the deck with Lestrade, more than a little bit drunk from the wine and homemade distilled alcohol they'd been gifted after their last jaunt ashore. He was red in the face from laughing, and he dropped his tin cup, which he'd just emptied. The sound of rough music floated from belowdecks where most of the ship's occupants were gathered and having a raucous evening. Of course, as was almost always true, one person was missing.  
John sighed and staggered to his feet, breath coming in white clouds as he spoke.

"I'm for bed, then."

His usual easy smile covered his face as he helped Lestrade to his feet as well.

"Ta. I'm gonna stay down here and make sure no one causes too much trouble. Can you make it on your own, then?"

John nodded and waved him off as they descended the steps none too gracefully and went their separate ways. In high spirits, John let his feet carry him to where he knew his bed was, humming to himself as he stumbled along.

He stared at his door, head pounding. When he could get his bearings, he unlatched his door and walked in, carefully latching it behind him and yawning, scratching at his scalp and making his blond hair stand up every which way. As he turned around, already starting to tug at the kerchief that he was wearing around his throat, he heard a gasp.

Gasping as well and spinning around much too quickly for his current state of intoxication, he put up his fists and got into a wobbly defensive stance, eyes scanning the room for the intruder. What he found was Sherlock in his dressing gown, looking quite shocked, with his violin in one hand, and his bow hanging limply in the other.

Neither of them did much for a span of thirty seconds except stare in surprised confusion at the other, and then John put a hand up to his head for a moment and leaned heavily against the door at his back. This spurred Sherlock into movement, and he swiftly put the stringed instrument onto the bed and hurried over, looking quite worried.

"John," Sherlock breathed, looking him over quickly, his brow furrowed.

"You were at the celebration. You've drank... much more than you have since you've been back here. Danced with Molly. Spoke privately with Lestrade." His deductions were stilted, short, as if he were searching for something, but wasn't quite finding it. "Your head aches... you were heading to bed, but..." Sherlock shook his head. "Why are you here? Let me take you to your cabin. You need to rest."

John looked confused, reaching up to put a hand heavily on Sherlock's chest, patting him almost childishly.

"No. No, this is where my bed is, Sherlock," John said, shaking his head as if trying to shake loose a thought from his brain. "This is my cabin. I just know it is. I know it, Sherlock."

The more he spoke, the less confused and more panicked he started to look. His blue eyes grew wide and almost fearful, as if maybe he were actually losing his mind after all, but he knew... John just knew that he wasn't wrong. This was where he was meant to be.

Sherlock, for his part, looked pained and panicked in equal parts, not quite knowing what to do with a drunk and emotional amnesiac in his cabin.

"Lets get you back to where you're sleeping currently, John. You'll feel much better in the morning, after you drink some water. Or, I can make you some tea. Come, now."  
John's brow furrowed now, and he shook his head, closing his eyes.

"No," he said, swaying slightly, but looking straight at Sherlock with a decisive sniff that the taller man knew normally preceded a tirade, even if the tirade were to be slurred horribly.

"No, Sherlock, I don't think that I will leave. I don't want water. I don't fucking want tea. I don't want you to treat me like I'm a delicate bloody tea cup, ready to shatter the moment anything unusual happens. I want you to look me straight in the eye and tell me that I'm wrong. I want you to tell me that this is not and never was my cabin."

By this point, John was gesturing enough that Sherlock's hands were out, in case the blond over balanced and needed assistance.

"That those aren't my things. That that isn't my bed. I want you to tell me... tell me that..." John blinked heavily, listing forward, and Sherlock instinctively grabbed John's arms to steady him.

John was staring up at Sherlock almost helplessly at this point, lips parted.

"Fuck, but you're pretty, aren't you?"

\---

Sherlock instantly catalogued what was running through John's alcohol soaked brain. The physical signs were like a glaring warning, and Sherlock knew that entering into anything before John's memories were returned to him would bring nothing but pain.

He was selfish for it, sure, but wouldn't he have been more selfish to use John when he very obviously wasn't thinking clearly? There was a reason that Sherlock avoided John as much as possible, and this was definitely one of the reasons, right here. It was nearly impossible for Sherlock, having missed John in every single way for so long, to keep himself from pulling John into himself and never ever letting him go again.

For now, however, Sherlock used his grip on John's arms to gently, politely, push John back a step. Sherlock knew that John's drunkenness and previous anger would likely see this as blatant rejection and take it badly, and he was prepared to take the brunt of that.

What Sherlock wasn't prepared for was the look of grim determination on John's face as he shook his head, trying to remove Sherlock's hands. When that didn't work, he slid his hands up Sherlock's chest, over his dressing gown. John's sturdy, tanned hands slid straight up the pale column of Sherlock's throat and into his hair, where they gripped dark curls, nearly pulling Sherlock to him.

It was all too much. It was too much to bear, too much to be expected for him to bear. He had everything that he wanted here in his arms, in his life, in his cabin, and yet, none of it was right. None of it was anything but a drunken fling. Sherlock felt his heart twisting and splintering, too much strain for too long making it brittle and weak. A sound near to a sob bubbled from Sherlock's throat and he strengthened his grip on John's arms, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Don't do this, John," he croaked out. "You've been drinking tonight. You don't know what you're doing..."

John's eyes flashed at that.

"I don't, do I? I don't know what I'm doing? Still treating me like a child, Sherlock. Like a precious broken thing. I'm not. I know what I'm doing, and I know what I want, and if you can tell me truthfully that you don't want this, I will leave and go wherever you want me to, and you'll never be bothered with this again, but by god, Sherlock, you better make me believe it."

Sherlock was given plenty of time to protest. He was given time to push away again, and he was given time to stumble backward out of the grip that they both had on each other.

\---

Sherlock did none of those things, and by his hold on Sherlock's hair John slowly pulled the man into his orbit, his eyes locked onto him the entire time. When they were close enough that Sherlock's features blurred together, John sighed, shoulders sagging, knowing that he wasn't to be refused again.

When their lips met, he could nearly taste the sorrow on Sherlock's lips, and John knew that he should have felt guilty, and he should have felt ashamed, but as he opened his mouth to allow Sherlock in, all he felt was... a splitting headache, one that made his knees buckle so that Sherlock had to grasp him desperately around the middle. His own hands had abandoned black curls for his own blonde head as he clasped his hands on either side of his head, fearing that his brain would leak out of his ears and his eyes would pop out. He was vaguely aware of being lifted, and then deposited onto the bed, and he would have been much more indignant about the entire affair if the headache weren't clearing to the rushing mental image of Sherlock's lips on his own in many different ways, in many different situations. 

It was like the phrase people uttered about life and death moments, 'my life flashed before my eyes.' Except all that John could see was each and every single kiss, from passionate to domestic, that he'd ever shared with Sherlock Holmes.

When he became aware of his surroundings, again, Sherlock looked completely terrified, eyes wide as he shook John, repeating his name firmly.

"Sherlock. Kissing you. I remember..."

Sherlock went still so quickly and so completely that John had to blink to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating all of this. Sherlock didn't even seem to be breathing, but just as suddenly as he had frozen, Sherlock became a flurry of activity.

"What do you remember? What did you see?" he demanded, while simultaneously fluffing the pillows behind John's head as he made him lie down.

Sherlock stroked distractedly over John's face, his throat, his hair. His movements were desperate and restrained at the same time, and he looked so, so very scared. So scared of maybe, finally getting to relax and let himself be happy. Maybe being able to not have to tiptoe around his feelings that, once they had been unleashed, raged through him untempered. Having to hold himself back since John flopped back onto the deck of their boat was slowly killing him, or so Lestrade and Molly had kindly told him.  
John huffed out a breathless sort of laugh, staring up at Sherlock. He was obviously amused at Sherlock's current state of worry.

"Sherlock... Sherlock calm down. Just calm down and let me talk. Just breathe." John smiled gently and reached up to tuck an errant curl behind Sherlock's ear, before he closed his eyes briefly to situate his words.

"All that came to me was you kissing me. Every instance, I believe, of you kissing me. It was... it was just a flurry of... I suppose images. Just you kissing me... over and over. I remember every single one."

John smirked cheekily up at Sherlock, though his face was still pale, and sweat still shone at his hairline.

"And my, didn't you do it quite often?"

Sherlock had the decency to flush at that accusation, averting his gaze and mumbling "you never saw fit to complain about it..."

John chuckled and reach up, pulling Sherlock's attention back to him.

"No, I didn't. And still won't..."

John's smile hadn't left his face, and only grew when, now that his shock had worn off, he noticed that Sherlock had him on his back and was hovering above him. His shoulders were bracketed by arms clad in a silk dressing gown which had slid off of one pale shoulder. Their chests were in line, with Sherlock's torso listing slightly off to John's right, as Sherlock's left knee was pressed into the mattress beside John's right hip, his right foot on the ground.

"That... was a suggestion, you know."

Sherlock made a helpless sort of sound, looking quite torn.

"But... your head," he said, finally, shifting his weight to one hand while he stroked John's brow. "I would not hurt you again. Until we can find cause for the symptom that you recovering your memor-"

"Sod that," John interrupted decisively in the middle of Sherlock's grand speech, leaning up and tugging Sherlock down by his dressing gown. He effectively cut off the great idiot by slanting his mouth easily against those plush lips, waiting for a headache that didn't come.

When he realised that it seemed to be a one time thing, he pressed more insistently, Sherlock finally relenting, and relaxing against the man beneath him. Realising that Sherlock was content to kiss him and wasn't going to try and pull away, John let go of the posh dressing gown that he'd been clinging to, letting his hands go where they really wanted to.  
One hand pushed up and back into the riot of curls that he'd been worshiping before his head decided to try and explode, while the other one smoothed down Sherlock's back. The clever left hand moved over bony shoulder blades, skimmed slowly down the center, with a thumb moving over each bump of that spine, spanned the width of a (too) trim waist, dipped reverently into the place where that spine curved closer to John's body, then followed it down, down to the lush expanse of backside.

John squeezed it as they kissed, using his grip to encourage Sherlock to move more directly on top of him. Now that he had Sherlock pliant and (more or less) complaint free, he wasn't going to waste his time with words and platitudes and give Sherlock time to try to dissuade him again.

Getting the hint, Sherlock nearly stumbled in his eagerness to shift himself to straddling the blond, making John growl his approval, and Sherlock flush.

John's hands now found themselves at Sherlock's thighs, his hips, not giving either of them time to stop or think or make excuses. He was done waiting, and he was done thinking, and he was certainly done making excuses. He knew what he wanted, and he knew at least some of what he had before, and he was going to have it again, thank you, and good day.

Sherlock broke the kiss to draw in ragged breaths, staring at John as if he weren't sure if he wanted to devour him, or run.

"Either bare yourself to me wholly, or tell me to leave now, Sherlock Holmes, because I've no room for your backpedaling and overthinking tonight," John said in a low, nearly dangerous voice.

He was on the edge of a cliff and he was more than prepared to jump, but only if Sherlock would take the fall with him. John wasn't going to play meek and coy, not when he was a grown man and he knew exactly what he wanted, and how he wanted to have it.

To Sherlock's credit, he only hesitated for a moment as he digested the information given to him before his eyes widened and he shrugged the dressing gown off of his shoulders with the expediency of one who was used to taking orders in the bedroom.

John's serious face morphed with his smirk as he watched the effect his words had on the, for now, meek kitten in his lap.

"Now. Move your wonderful violin off of the bed so it doesn't get ruined. Then I want you to come back over here and stand beside the bed while you strip to naught but skin for me. After that is complete, I want you to get back up on this lovely bed and into my arms, and I don't want us to part until morning. Do you think you can handle that?"

Sherlock shuddered hard above him, but he nodded quickly, making John chuckle darkly, watching as Sherlock scrambled from the bed with a grace borne from posh upbringing and an eagerness borne from sexual repression.

While Sherlock put the violin away, John unceremoniously shucked his clothes and found that after the headache from earlier, he was much more sober than he had been while walking to the room. He supposed that extreme shock would do that to a man. Before he could dwell on it for too long, Sherlock was standing next to the bed where John had told him to.

Laying on his back with his head lolled to the side, he watched as Sherlock took off what little clothes he had left. John sucked in a quick breath when he saw the miles and miles of pale skin before him, but when he reached out to pull Sherlock back onto the bed, he frowned.

"You're shaking." he murmured, tugging at Sherlock's wrist gently, until the other man joined him on the bed.

John didn't ravage him immediately as he'd planned to do, and instead pulled him close, stroking through the mess of dark curls soothingly.

"I didn't... I thought you wanted... we don't have to do this, Sherlock, I didn't mean to bully you into anything. I thought..."

Sherlock shook his head, pulling back from John in alarm.

"No! No, don't you dare, John. Don't... don't you take this away from me. I never thought that I'd ever... ever again be able to... to have you and here you are and it's just. It's a bit overwhelming, I must admit, but please don't mistake that for disinterest, because dear God... John," he said, unable to continue articulating his thoughts, which John knew was quite rare.

John nodded, but continued his soothing motions, settling Sherlock down, and peppering kisses across his shoulder, and up his neck.

"Alright, you beauty. Alright. I just wanted to make sure that we were both on the same page here, okay? I didn't want to be doing anything that I had no business trying to do, that I had no right trying."

Sherlock stilled suddenly, looking at John with a new fierceness in his gaze.

"You have every right."

John suddenly found himself on his back again with a lap full of very warm and naked Sherlock Holmes. He found that he rightly didn't much mind his current predicament, and raised his head to catch the lips that were coming swiftly for him. Whatever hesitation there had been on both sides had burned away to leave nothing left but their desperate need. It was true that both of them had differing reasons for needing this so much, beyond the physical.

John needed to try and force himself to recall everything of his past, especially if the beautiful creature in his arms was such a big part of it.

Sherlock needed to let himself release what he'd been holding against John, and let himself try to be content with what he had, here and now.

Turning the tables, Sherlock was then successfully pinned to the bed by John's strong arms, and John could do nothing but stare at this gift that he was given. Dash his memories, he'd make new ones, with this shining star at the very bloody top. He ignored Sherlock's whining as he set off to mapping every inch of his skin with lips and teeth and tongue and hands. He hoped that he hadn't, before he lost his memories, failed to properly worship the wild thing twisting underneath him in the sheets. Even if he had done so, he was more than prepared to do it again, and again, and again. Sherlock was apparently in agreement, and his long arm stretched out, clasping a glass vial and settling it against John's side until the man nodded, aware of it's presence.

John paid homage to Sherlock's chest, leaving soft marks in his wake as he found first one nipple, then the other, frustrating the man with his sudden inability to stay in one place. John's wandering soon found him with his face pressed into the crease where Sherlock's thigh met his groin, nuzzling there as Sherlock nearly begged him with his legs splaying ever wider. John hummed to himself, his hands helping Sherlock's legs along as he moved to suck a lovely mark into Sherlock's inner thigh, making him jump and moan. Sherlock's body was tight and thrumming with energy as he was tortured by John.

And the torture wasn't nearly over.

John mouthed his way up one side of Sherlock's cock and down the other, before taking nearly all of it in at once, groaning his pleasure around it. Sherlock, for his part, fisted the sheets beneath him as his back arched, and he made an entirely undignified sound. Even if John didn't remember ever doing anything like this, muscle memory had certainly kicked in, as his tongue curled around him perfectly, and he somehow knew just exactly what it took to make Sherlock a panting, shaking mess.

To Sherlock's annoyance, John didn't stay at that task for long, either. He slid Sherlock slowly out of his mouth, and the cool air staved off his impending orgasm, making Sherlock bite back a curse.

"Have mercy, John, won't you?"

John looked up from between Sherlock's legs, his blue eyes sparkling as he shook his head.

"Never."

That one word was all the warning that Sherlock had before John's head ducked down, letting Sherlock's legs fall over his shoulders. That blond hair that Sherlock so loved was brushing the insides of his sensitive thighs. Before Sherlock had time to question him, and before he really even had time to think about what it was that John had planned, he had slithered down onto his belly and was putting his hands to good use, and was licking a stripe straight up his-

"JOHN!"

John, of course, merely hummed in answer and never strayed from his task. The task, of course, was obviously to drive Sherlock absolutely barking mad.

John's cruel tongue never dipped into him, directly, of course, as that was exactly what Sherlock wanted. No, it teased, and laved, and stroked, and generally just served to make Sherlock lose all sense of himself, and all power of speech.

Finally, finally, John's tongue breached him, and by this point, they were both shaking needily, but steady, patient John would give Sherlock nothing but the best. After minutes that seemed like hours, John relented and pulled back, hand skittering across the bedsheets to find where the vial had gone that Sherlock had so thoughtfully found earlier.  
Maybe it was that Sherlock was so pliant from his earlier ministrations, or maybe he was very relaxed, or (John groaned when he thought of it) maybe the reason this vial was in such close reach and the reason that his first finger slipped in with absolutely no issue was because Sherlock often pleasured himself this way...

Either way, he was finding that he was having quite an easier time than he had anticipated. No matter how much Sherlock was squirming or pleading, this was one thing that John was not going to rush. He worked a second finger into that tight space as he kissed up Sherlock's body with the same attention to detail as he had kissed down, cataloguing his hip bones, the soft planes of his stomach, his rib cage.

By the time he had a third finger in, he was at that marvelous pale throat, not caring if he left marks there as Sherlock's hands raked down his back, blunt fingernails trailing pink welts behind them. John gasped and forced himself to concentrate, even as the object of his concentration tried to get him to deviate from his task.

"Have me already, John, I've waited too long for you to be sensitive about it now."

John just kissed him quiet, continuing to prepare him until he felt satisfied. Sherlock let out a soft noise as John's fingers withdrew, and he used more of the oil on himself. The dark haired man was repeating John's name and the word 'yes' like a litany, or a prayer, and John couldn't deny him any longer. As soon as he'd gotten into position, long legs locked around him, encouraging him and caging him in just as much as he was caging the body underneath him.

John wasn't sure how long it too for him to slowly, so slowly, make his way into the utterly willing body below him, but by the time they were joined completely, they were both gasping wide eyed at each other. The buzzing pain that had started in the back of John's head when Sherlock had laid underneath him had grown to a persistent throbbing that encompassed his entire head, but he wasn't about to stop. Not when he felt more complete and more like a person than he ever had in his entire life. Not when everything was so perfect and to mess it up would be the worst mistake he'd ever made. Not when Sherlock was staring up at him with a kind of shock, reaching up to touch his face, smiling with a mouth amazed by their actions. No. A headache was not going to end this.

He groaned as he pulled out halfway, and slid in again, starting a deep rhythm that strained all of his muscles and made him burn and ache in the best of ways. The way Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed and his back arched was worth it, and John leaned down to kiss him before he could stop himself, needing to be connected to him in every way.

They were both a panting sweaty mess when Sherlock pushed John back a bit and deftly flipped them, easily climbing back on to straddle John's muscular hips again, sliding himself down onto him, surrounding John in the most perfect heat.

It was now John's turn to cry out, back arching, as his hands gripped narrow hips and helped Sherlock as he fought to bring them both to completion. John was thankful, as his head felt ready to split like an egg, and he thought that he actually may die, but it was worth it... Oh, it was worth it.

John reached his hand to close around Sherlock, letting their movements dictate the movement of his hand on him, and the delicious noise that Sherlock growled out made John melt. After that, it didn't take much time at all for Sherlock to gasp with wide eyes, stilling momentarily before his orgasm crashed over him. 

He spilled between them, and John's thrusts turned manic and crazed as he was completely consumed by the feel and the vision of Sherlock losing complete control. John mounted that cresting wave, and as it started to crash, his eyes widened, and his head did, indeed split open. He dazedly watched Sherlock's back as the thinner man tried to catch his breath, stretched out over him before the shock of memories too strong to contain slammed his mind.

After that, all John Watson knew was darkness.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes again, was a pair of red eyes set above tear stained cheeks. The red only highlighted the unusual color of the man's eyes, and his too-long eyelashes that were stuck together by tears framed them better than any piece of art John had ever seen. A gasping hiccough followed, and John was being crushed to a thin chest. Sherlock's arms around him were desperate and terrible in their gratitude.

"Sherlock," John said, voice muffled. "Can't breathe."

He was released, and Sherlock let out a giddy sort of noise, wiping at his face.

"I thought I had... if you'd have gone from me a second time, I... I knew you weren't dead, I'm not an idiot, but..."

Sherlock sounded nearly manic as he gave a full laugh, head falling back.

"I mean I know I'm good in bed, but I had no idea I was that good," he finished, sounding nothing like himself, and everything like himself all at the same time.  
Shaking his head, Sherlock tried to reorder his brain.

"What happened, John? Do you... do you remember, now?"

John laughed, feeling every bit as hysterical as Sherlock looked, and nodded. Lying back to ease his vertigo, and pulling Sherlock to his chest to lay there, John let out a slow breath before speaking.

"I... do. I do, it's just all... bunged up right now. It's like it all tried to fit through a narrow door all at once, but it couldn't, and so now it's all kind of just.. coming in bits and pieces. None of it is..." he frowned and shook his head, pulling a hand up to rub at his temples. "It's like looking at someone else's thoughts, right now. Reading through someone else's story. It'll settle, though. I'll make it do. What I... remember last was..."

He closed his eyes, trying to dredge up the image he was trying to find.

"We were having a row? On the docks, somewhere. Somewhere warm. After that, it's still rather a blur."

Sherlock sighed, not having let himself relive the day that this all happened, except to pick apart each thing that was said and done to be able to pin down clues to finding John. He'd relived it intimately, but only academically. Emotionally, the day was completely shut out and banished as well as Sherlock could banish any memory or emotion.  
Which is to say, rather well. It took Sherlock a bit to unlock the memory, and when he related the tale to John, he kept his head on John's strong chest.

"You're right, we had a fight. I don't much remember what about, now. It's not as if it matters. We were on the docks, as you said, and you turned and stormed off 'for a walk', as you're so fond of doing when I anger you."

"I had gone back to the ship at that point, when a messenger came, bearing another of the letters we'd been receiving for a case I'd been working. It was then that Lestrade came to me, and we realised that he must have surely passed you on the docks, for they were large and expansive, but there was no way he could have missed you."

"I re-read the letter and followed the clues to a cove that I remembered from my adolescence. We were in the same town in the South of France that I had visited with my family as a boy, and I had gotten quite bored with all of their... frippery... and went exploring. That cove was the site of my first murder investigation, though I wasn't taken seriously at all, at the time."

"The letter drew me to that same cove, and I knew the madman that we'd been following would be there, and I was there with the information, just as he wanted. But instead of him, out stepped you. I had to keep a calm demeanor, but it took all of my strength to not run to make sure you were unharmed. You walked mechanically, though not exactly as if you were pained, so I had to hope that you weren't hurt in any way, physically."

"It was soon obvious that the madman was forcing you to talk. I knew that he had what seemed to be an immeasurable amount of luck. He was always a step ahead of me. He was always faster, more clever. He always seemed to gain ground when I only lost it, and I always thought it was due to my failings."

"But in that cove, John... it was all revealed to me. Not that anyone would understand or, of course, believe me. Should I try to explain to anyone who wasn't there I'd be called unstable, I'd be laughed at. But you were there, so perhaps you'll believe me."

"He'd somehow mastered ancient dark rituals, and pulled power into himself. It's the only explanation. He called himself a grand sorcerer, and a High Priest, and... it's all rubbish of course, but... the fact that he was able to control you like a puppet in front of me. It made me sick, and I could do absolutely nothing about it. I was powerless, and he reveled in it."

"A twitch of his hand had you speaking what he wanted you to say to me, another twitch revealed that you had grenades strapped to your person... he demonstrated away from the explosives how one snap from him could incinerate exactly what he wanted and nothing else."

"You were both prey and bait and I could do naught to help you. He toyed with us, feigning disinterest, feigning safety. I was able to go to you, once, but he came back, of course. We were both stuck in his trap, in his web, and all he was doing was toying with us."

"He was angry with me. He thought that he and I were a matched set that... It doesn't matter, now. It doesn't. He was angry with me, and I remember his words clearly... as they have haunted my dreams for three years and I have never been able to..."

"He looked straight at me and said 'I will burn the heart out of you,' and I thought that a very silly thing to say, but he was chanting, and I couldn't keep my footing, and I couldn't get to you, and I couldn't... I couldn't save you. I couldn't do anything."

"I eventually rushed at him, but he just smiled at me and wished me luck with the sea, before he plunged a dagger into his own breast and would speak no more. As soon as he breathed his last, a wave of air seemed to knock me off of my feet. And you were gone. Completely gone. Vanished. As if you had never been there at all. His death seemed to be the final ingredient in whatever dark words he had twisted, and with his demise, you were taken from me as well."

"For three years I searched for you, for why would he wish me luck if he were just going to kill you? And why, if he were to kill you, wouldn't he do it right in front of me, where I could see and hurt more deeply over your body?"

"No, once my grief had settled, I realised that he must have hidden you, somewhere. It took a year to figure out that any time we'd get close to your location, the storms would get worse, rending our sails and breaking our ship in half nearly twice."

"It took us another two years to figure out exactly where you were, and to build the ship up strong enough to withstand the gales and waves that came with your proximity. Any time I'd be one step closer to finding you, I'd also be one step closer to being ripped apart by the sea."

"It was unnatural, and I was following some dark fortune that had been left inside of me, once my heart had, indeed, been burned out of me. I must say, I grew quite discouraged and highly despondent, and the storm raged and raged once I had pin pointed your precise location. It was as if it knew that I knew where you were, and it delighted in teasing that I couldn't reach you."

"I knew I was going to die in search of you, and you'd never know I was even looking. I figured you thought you'd been abandoned, and that I was never going to come after you. I couldn't bear the thought of you thinking ill of me, but until the storm that had come to curse me did take my life, I was going to try and scheme, and attempt to get you back to me."

"Then, at the height of the storm, when the ship was listing so far starboard that I was sure it was finally the end, and I would be through with my torturous head and absent heart, everything stopped."

"Everything abruptly stopped, and Lestrade said not only had my contacts found you, but that you were on board the ship. I could barely contain my joy, then, and had to wait to compose myself fully before I went to you. I knew you weren't well, having been drug through the storm to get to the ship, and I knew nothing of the nature of your journey, or how you spent the last three years, but once I knew you were here, it was the worst torture to keep myself away. I had to see you."

"And I had no idea who you were... oh Sherlock..." John interrupted, wiping at his eyes as he wrapped his arms tighter around the man resting atop him. "I had no idea... Oh, you must have been so... It was his final twist, wasn't it? His last game. Let you somehow find me and... and I didn't even know you."

He pulled back to look more clearly at Sherlock, who did, indeed, look miserable.

"Look at me, love. Look here."

When Sherlock did as he was told, John gave a soft smile.

"You know what he didn't count on? What my last trick was? That my love for you wouldn't give a bilge rat's arse about magic or curses or someone trying to make me forget you. It may have taken me a while, but I'm here. We're here. I've got you. I've got you, now, and I'm not going to let go, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and snuffled his way up into John's neck, lying in his favorite place in the entire world for the first time in far too long. Finally able to let himself relax, fully.  
"Promise?" he asked, feeling much more frail and vulnerable than he had since the first time he'd told John he loved him.

John smiled and nodded, arms protective around his brilliant lover.

"I promise, Sherlock. It's over. I'm home, now."

Smirking, Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Yes, Captain Watson, I rather think you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are my lifeblood, and make writing this 10 times better. You're all amazing, and I'm so happy to have you along for the ride. Don't forget to read the other stories in this series, and look for the next one up in a week or so, I hope! Come find me on [MY TUMBLR](http://dude-youre-gettin-adele.tumblr.com/) if you want!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Don't forget to comment and send kudos if you enjoyed! Also check out my other offerings in this series, and come find me on [MY TUMBLR](http://dude-youre-gettin-adele.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to!


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